


a lot to not do

by spikenard



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blowjobs, First Time, M/M, PWP, Trans Character, previously unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9916223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: "Oh my god," Gansey says, and he sounds drunk.





	1. Chapter 1

"Oh my god," Gansey says, and he sounds drunk.

Not the way Ronan gets drunk now, with something to prove, but the same way he'd sounded the one time Ronan had gotten them both tipsy on pilfered schnapps the summer before everything went to shit. 

They'd been lying on their sides in a humid hayloft, curled towards each other like parentheses, chiastic, a space between them waiting to be filled. Gansey had done shots until he was red-faced, straw and his shirt clinging to his bare skin, his hair curling with sweat. Ronan had hoped Gansey would be a happy drunk and instead he'd been yearning and bewildered, almost to the point of tears, longing for something he didn't understand how to find. That's when Ronan knew Gansey was going to be the best friend he'd ever have. 

“Oh my god," Gansey says again, in the present, his voice thick and urgent, and Ronan jerks back to himself. He stops worrying a thumb over the dip in Gansey's hipbone to concentrate on pulling Gansey's briefs down along with his shorts. 

"Ronan," Gansey says, pleading, commanding. It's the same tone he uses to warn Ronan off Declan, away from Kavinsky, off the road, away from anything that gets Ronan's blood hot enough to smooth the snarls in his mind into something quiet, something simple, for a few minutes at a time. 

Ronan ignores Gansey. 

He can make all the scandalized noises he wants; he’s still lifting his hips to help Ronan get his dick out. He’s not shoving Ronan away like he had the time Ronan had kissed him — _either_ time Ronan had kissed him — and for all that things haven't been the same between Gansey and Ronan for months, Ronan can read his face. Ronan knows Gansey better than he’s ever known anyone. 

Gansey flicks his tongue over his lips and swallows, heavy. Ronan watches his Adam's apple bob. 

Gansey's shirt is somewhere across the room. Half-naked, sprawled out and on display, he doesn’t have much of a farmer's tan, not like Parrish does; Gansey is golden all over when shirtless. Below the waist he’s noticeably paler, though, his flushed dick a vivid contrast. 

Gansey is hard. Uncut, too, Ronan is pretty sure, and invitingly thick. Not particularly long, but Ronan doesn’t know if that’s just a sign that he's been watching too much porn. He's seen dicks before, obviously, he has brothers, but never a hard-on. 

Gansey says, "You're staring," and his voice cracks, badly. Ronan takes a deep breath and, on the exhale, wraps his hand around Gansey's dick. 

His hand swallows it up, the tip just barely poking out of his fist. Gansey moves when Ronan touches him, a movement that might be called sinuous if Gansey were naturally inclined towards elegance. Instead it’s a confused thrash, Gansey's back arching and hips bucking, one of his legs jerking forward to knee Ronan in the chest, his head flung sideways into a pillow to muffle a frantic noise.

Ronan squeezes his hand around Gansey's dick, tries rubbing his thumb over the head where it peeks past his knuckles. It jerks against his fingers and spurts wet at the tip. 

Ronan stares up at Gansey: an arm flung out over his eyes, his mouth red and open, panting for breath. He looks like something off a church window.

Ronan squeezes again and Gansey cries out, his dick twitching again against Ronan's palm. It’s so soft. Ronan never wants to stop touching it. 

"Not," Gansey says, and stutters into silence. He has to clear his throat. Gansey blushes a fervent red down his throat, the tip of the one ear Ronan can see. His nipples are very brown. "S'too hard, Ronan, not so —"

Ronan stops squeezing Gansey's dick. The second he does he has to forcibly restrain himself from squeezing it again. He briefly wonders if this is how straight guys feel about tits. He’s going to die if he has to stop feeling Gansey in his hand. 

He roughens his voice, pitching it low. "How," he says, and his tongue feels clumsy against his cheeks. He tries again. "How do you like it?" 

He tries shifting his hand up and back down. Gansey feels so _good_ in his hand, hot and heavy and alive. He can hardly think; one of Kavinsky's cracks about driving stick briefly filters through his hazy thoughts.

He shakes it off, though; now isn’t the time. Instead, he tries digging his thumbnail lightly into the sticky slit of Gansey’s dick. Just to get his attention. A pulse of wetness hits his thumb, and he has a dizzying moment where he wonders if Gansey just came. 

Of course he didn’t, but the thought drives Ronan wild. He does it again, a little harder; Gansey makes a smothered noise like _nnnnh_ and twists his face into his elbow more firmly, squirming with his whole body, not quite a thrash but close. Ronan has to catch Gansey’s leg before Gansey can flail it out at him again. 

“ _Gansey_ ," Ronan says, digging the fingernails of his other hand into Gansey’s kneecap. He needs Gansey to talk to him. No matter how good this feels, no matter how Ronan’s been wanting it. 

Ronan never wants to hear anything other than the noises Gansey’s been making ever again, wants to permanently bruise his knees on Monmouth’s concrete floor, wants to stay between Gansey’s thighs forever, but more than anything else he wants Gansey to want this. 

If this doesn’t work Ronan’s fucked it all up.

“Dick,” he tries, voice a little gentler, hand soft around Gansey’s dick. Where Ronan's hand is curled around the base of Gansey's dick it's grinding against Gansey's hipbone, his neat pubic hair. The back of Ronan's knuckles are brushing against Gansey’s stomach. His happy trail. He runs his other hand up Gansey’s thigh against the grain, a little overwhelmed by Gansey's easy masculinity. “How do you like it?”

Gansey swallows and wipes over his face with a hand, stops hiding it in his elbow. A ruffle of pink tongue and red mouth and chestnut hair. He sniffles, almost. Ronan is horrified. Did he make Gansey _cry_?

Gansey's hand reaches down, too close to Ronan's face. He nearly flinches back. If Gansey is going to hit him, shove him away, he should let go, he thinks, as Gansey's hand bumps into his face. 

Gansey’s palm is clammy, his hand warm and clumsy. He fumbles the dip of his palm against Ronan’s jaw, his thumb over Ronan’s cheekbone. 

“Ronan,” he says, and Ronan feels something almost like relief. 

They sit like that for a second, Ronan’s hand on Gansey’s dick and Gansey’s hand on Ronan’s face. Ronan wants to kiss Gansey’s palm, the thin skin on his wrist, right over his hectic pulse, where his blood’s beating. Proof that Gansey’s right here in front of him, alive. That both of them are. 

Ronan says, “You gonna give me an answer?” 

Gansey’s hand slides from his cheek down to Ronan’s neck. Gansey’s fingers dig in hard over the curl of his tattoo. Gansey’s strong; he could manhandle Ronan, easy. Ronan has to bite back a moan. 

“Not so hard,” Gansey says. “Like. Really light.” 

Ronan rolls his eyes. Says “Yeah, I got that. How — anything else?” 

He smears the wetness Gansey'd spilled into the broad head of his dick in tight little circles, watches Gansey gasp and twitch, the muscles in his stomach tense and flutter.

Gansey says “That’s— that’s good, Ronan,” and rubs his thumb over the tendon in Ronan’s neck. “Just like that.” 

Ronan doesn’t know what that means. He’s pretty sure that’s not gonna be enough to get Gansey off, no matter how easy teen guys are supposed to be. He rubs another circle with his thumb and leans his face into Gansey’s hand.

Gansey sighs. His eyelashes flutter. They’re so long. 

Ronan tries to work up the courage to point out the obvious and decides it’s not worth it. Gansey knows everything there is to know about Ronan, and anyway they’ve been living together for months. 

It’s not like Gansey isn’t _aware_ , anyway: Ronan doesn’t mind changing in front of Gansey, but even now he’s got his shirt on. He’s not gonna flaunt any of his scars right now; he knows it upsets Gansey. 

“I’m gonna need a hand here,” he says, and hopes his voice came out low and casual. “It’s not like I know what I’m doing.” 

Gansey squeezes Ronan’s neck again and takes a shaky breath before gathering himself. Ronan almost misses the totally unspooled Gansey he had sprawled out in front of him, but Gansey’s eyes are still flashing and he’s still flushed under his tan. Ronan’ll see him light up again. 

“Right,” Gansey says and lets go of Ronan’s neck. He uses his hand to gesture. His other hand’s white-knuckled in the sheets, and he doesn’t let go. “I like it— don’t like, not up and down, I like it—” and Gansey twists his wrist like he’s opening a bottle. 

Ronan tries it. Gansey says “yeah,” and Ronan can hear the strain in his voice. 

“Can you like —” and Gansey makes a half-incoherent hand gesture. Ronan tries lifting the heel of his hand a little. He’s barely moving his hand, really, just tiny twists with his thumb pressing into the head of Gansey’s dick. 

“Yeah,” Gansey says, and he’s breathless. “Ronan, that’s so —”

He’s leaking now, getting wetter than Ronan does. Ronan does his best to keep Gansey’s pre on his hands, rub it on his dick, keep Gansey slick enough that Ronan’s sweaty palm doesn’t stick to him. 

“How close are you?” Ronan asks. He’s desperately curious; he wants to watch Gansey come. He’s heard Gansey touching himself before — they live together, and Gansey’s not exactly quiet even when he’s trying to be stealthy — but he wants to _see_ it. Wants to make it happen.

Gansey squirms and doesn’t answer. Ronan keeps rubbing him, little slow movements. 

“Is this enough?” he asks. Gansey doesn’t answer; he lets out a pained noise when Ronan stops moving his hand and just thumbs under the head of Gansey’s dick. He shakes his head.

“What do you need,” Ronan starts to ask, but Gansey’s already stumbling over a sentence. 

“It’s not wet enough,” Gansey says, only barely stammering, clearly mortified. 

“Huh,” Ronan says, and uncurls his hand. He leaves his hand touching Gansey, the back of his palm against Gansey’s lower stomach, the back of Gansey’s dick brushing his palm. So it’ll be easy for him to get his hand back around him. 

Ronan doesn’t know how to make it _wetter_. Gansey’s leaking pre, but that’s apparently not enough. There’s lotion on Gansey’s bedside table, obviously, but Ronan doesn’t want to get up to get it; he’s sure that the second he moves away the moment will break. 

He’s close between Gansey’s legs, Gansey’s knees on either side of him, one of Ronan’s elbows resting on Gansey’s thighs. Ronan bends a little, brings his face level with Gansey’s junk, and watches it twitch. Gansey gropes for Ronan’s shoulder, his eyes closed and breath shallow. When he finds it, Gansey shudders and digs his nails in. 

Ronan tries breathing on Gansey, over his dick and his thighs, and he can tell Gansey feels it, the way he claws over Ronan’s shoulder and neck, scrambles to grab at the fabric of Ronan’s tank top. Ronan works up a mouthful and gobs on Gansey’s dick. 

Gansey yelps and twitches, spurts more pre and squeaks out a gratifying _Jesus Christ_. Ronan mostly ignores him, Gansey’s babbling and twitching and clinging to Ronan’s shoulder, in order to watch his spit leave a shiny trail down Gansey’s length. 

Why not, Ronan thinks a little vaguely, and lowers his face far enough that he can lick it back off. 

Gansey’s dick tastes fine, mostly clean and a little salty. Like skin. Kind of bitter at the tip where he’s all sticky. And it’s making Gansey lose his damn mind; Ronan hears Gansey make a noise he’d mock him for relentlessly under any other circumstances. 

He wonders if he could fit Gansey into his mouth. So he tries it. Opens his mouth and fits it over Gansey. He tries to keep his teeth out of the way. 

Ronan wants Gansey’s whole dick in his mouth. It’s small enough he’s pretty sure he could manage it, the way it fit into his hand. 

It’s not as easy as all that, though. Ronan seals his lips into wet circle and pushes them down. He gags a little when Gansey lets out a soft gasp and lets hips jerk to shove the broad head of his dick into Ronan’s hard palate. He recovers, though, and then shifts forwards on his knees, slides his hands up Gansey’s thighs to cradle the tender space between his thumb and forefinger against the dip where Gansey’s thighs meet his hips. That lets him hold Gansey down, too, and the leverage paired with the shift in angle let him slide his lips all the way down to press against Gansey’s pubic bone. 

He swallows hard, twice. Gansey’s dick is filling his mouth and his throat; he tries to breathe through his nose but it feels sticky and clogged. Gansey sobs above him and runs his hands over Ronan’s ear and scalp, pulls at Ronan’s shirt. 

“Ronan, God,” Gansey says, and Ronan’s never heard his voice like that before. He sounds like he’s praying. Gansey doesn't do that, but it's being dragged out of him. Penitence. Devotion.

Ronan feels right like this. He wants to keep Gansey in his mouth as long as he can, but this isn’t about him. 

It’s for Gansey, so Ronan does his best to make it wet for him. He sucks at the head of Gansey’s dick, half-trying to suck his jizz out of him. He wants Gansey to come in his mouth. On his face. 

“Jesus _Mary_ mother of God," Gansey says fervently, Ronan's words in his mouth, and Ronan loves him so much he is, for a dizzying second, terrified that it might burn out of his skin and sear Gansey everywhere their skin is touching. 

He can feel himself moaning around Gansey’s dick, broken low noises, and his mouth is watering so badly he can’t swallow it all down. Some drool slips out between his lips. 

He lets go of one of Gansey’s hips, fumbles the button of his pants open and shoves his hand under his boxers without bothering to unzip his fly. The zipper digs into the back of Ronan’s wrist and he doesn’t give a damn. Ronan doesn’t have the concentration to do anything fancy, just presses his middle finger between his — lips, whatever, just rubs it up and down trying to spread what wetness there is around, curls and uncurls his fingertip against the back wall of his hole to feel himself stretch. He moans again, can't help it. 

Ronan tries bobbing his head and Gansey says “No — stay still, you don’t have to —” so Ronan gives up to goes back to sucking, trying to work his tongue against Gansey as best he can, doing his best to breathe like this. 

Every time Ronan swallows Gansey’s hips twitch against Ronan’s hands and his hands clench against Ronan. He’s gasping in time too, harsh little _ah_ s filling the air. 

On a particularly hard suck, Gansey claws at Ronan’s face, forces it further down on his dick. One of Gansey’s neat fingernails scrapes over Ronan’s scalp in a burning line, hard enough that Ronan wonders if it drew blood, but then he’s distracted. 

Gansey’s curling forward and shoving his hips against Ronan’s mouth. His dick is all the way against the back of Ronan’s throat. He tries to pull back but Gansey makes a little protesting noise where he’s curled over Ronan, so Ronan swallows hard and stays. He wants Gansey to love this. 

He looks up as best he can, breathing hard through his nose. Gansey’s muscles are twitching and he’s breathing so sharply he nearly looks like he’s twitching. 

“I’m,” Gansey says, but it trails off into a moan, and that’s all the warning Ronan gets. Gansey’s abs twitch and he shoves Ronan’s head down hard enough that his lips feel bruised, and he nuts in Ronan’s mouth.

Ronan chokes. He coughs with his mouth full, around Gansey’s dick, but it’s over quick, just two or three pulses and Gansey’s pulling back, rubbing his length between Ronan’s sore lips. 

Ronan doesn’t know what to do with Gansey’s come. It tastes good, strong, and swallowing it seems like a waste. He keeps it in his mouth, where it drips over his lips and chin. He pulls his hand out of his underwear and grips tight at his own thigh, digs his nails in and swallows to clear his throat.

Gansey is still breathing like a freight train, but now his hands are gentle over Ronan’s hair. He doesn’t make a move to pull his dick out of Ronan’s mouth even as it gets soft again, just keeps rubbing it over Ronan’s lips and tongue and letting it get coated with his own jizz. 

When Gansey finally catches his breath, he pushes Ronan off him mostly by the forehead, like he’d be pulling Ronan’s hair, if he had any. Gansey’s gorgeous and sated as Ronan settles back on his heels, still between Gansey’s thighs. 

“Wow,” Gansey says, and Ronan can’t parse his tone, whether it’s sarcastic or presidential or overwhelmed. Or worse, underwhelmed. Ronan rubs the back of his hand over his mouth and Gansey, watching him, bites his lip. Ronan is smug. Definitely not underwhelmed. 

Gansey tugs at Ronan’s shoulder, half hauling him up to sit next to Gansey on his bed and half pulling at Ronan's tank top. Ronan goes, and there’s an awful muddle of limbs. Gansey wipes Ronan’s face clean with the inside of the shirt Ronan is wearing — Ronan spits a little, too — and then doesn’t bother to pull it off him, just leaves his jizz drying against Ronan’s chest. It’s disgusting. 

“Wow,” Gansey says again, but softer this time, and leans in to kiss him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features some mild dysphoria and also a trans character who isn't particularly fussy about the specifics of how he gets off or what his junk gets called, in case that sort of thing is Of Concern to you.

It’s not much of a kiss though, really. Just Gansey’s lips pressing all soft over the corner of Ronan’s. Gansey’s deep breaths puffing out into Ronan’s open mouth. His breath is minty and a little stale, like he fell asleep with his mouth open. 

Ronan freezes all the same. He can’t help it. 

Gansey pulls away, uncertainty all over his face, and Ronan pangs with a distant burst of self-hatred. 

“Is that not -” Gansey starts, anxious and gentlemanly, and Ronan kisses him to shut him up. 

“Shut up,” he adds, for good measure, when Gansey’s girly eyelashes have tipped shut and he’s let out a little sigh into Ronan’s mouth.

Gansey’s touching him gently, now, his hands fluttering along Ronan’s arm and over his face and neck. Like Gansey can’t decide how to touch him, or where to touch him, or like he’s not sure Ronan wants to be touched. 

Gansey is an idiot.

It’s not like Ronan knows a lot about kissing, or even half as much as Gansey does, probably. Ronan’s dreams count for more than most people’s, but he’s not going to line fantasies up as real experience. He’s kissed two people in real life — Cheng, a couple times freshman year, when they were both baby-faced and squeaky and practically Sargent’s height. And Gansey, obviously. Twice.

Ronan’s not even sure Gansey counted before this time, what with the gentle way he’d pushed Ronan back by the shoulders with an awkward laugh, the first time, letting him down easy, or the shoving and punching the second time Ronan tried it. The second time hadn’t even been a real kiss, just a half-second brush of lips.

This is a real kiss, though. Ronan’s very aware of how chapped his lips are; Gansey carries chapstick around everywhere, or a little thumbnail-sized screw-cap of Vaseline.

Gansey’s hands have settled, one fisted in the front of Ronan’s tank top, keeping him close, and the other on Ronan’s neck, his thumb rubbing up Ronan’s jaw to the dip in the bone over and over again, prickling against the stubble, a little too fervent and jerkily repetitive to be soothing.

Gansey’s eyes are closed. Ronan’s aren’t; Gansey’s noisy and responsive, making little hitching breaths into Ronan’s mouth now, pressing their lips together more messily on every exhale. Gansey’s tongue flickers out; it’s incendiary over Ronan’s lips. He hears himself moan, and presses his face a little closer to Gansey’s, but Gansey’s pulling back a little. 

“What,” Ronan says, stupidly, before he can think to click his mouth shut. Gansey’s still petting over Ronan’s jaw. 

“It’s just,” Gansey says, nose wrinkled, and Ronan feels a bolt of mortified terror through his chest and down, a lightning bolt bisecting him, that he’s doing it wrong, that Gansey’s disgusted, that he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want Ronan.

But Gansey’s sliding the hand on Ronan’s jaw into a firm grip around the back of his neck and tugging Ronan’s face down, pulling up his shirt with the hand against Ronan’s chest. He wipes at Ronan’s mouth with his fist clenched in the already-crusty fabric, until Ronan says “Jesus” and turns his head to wipe himself clean on his shirt’s shoulder strap.

“Thanks,” Gansey says, a little sheepish but already pulling Ronan back towards him, when Ronan reemerges from inside his shirt, scrubbed clean — well, cleaner — from philtrum to chin. 

This time Gansey’s thorough, soft lips mouthing over Ronan’s chin and jaw until they’re kissing again, and Gansey slides his tongue over Ronan’s mouth, methodical, and then between Ronan’s lips; Ronan sucks on it, automatically, and suddenly Gansey’s all over him. 

Gansey’s still making his weird little _tastes off_ noise while he fucks his tongue further into Ronan’s mouth, licking over Ronan’s gums, and rubbing his tongue against Ronan’s, and mother _Mary_ help him it’s the same fucking noise Gansey made last week when there was something crunchy in the boeuf bourguignon at lunch and Ronan’s never going to be able to eat again without remembering this and losing his mind.

After that things go a little hazy — Gansey’s tongue in Ronan’s mouth, Ronan doing his desperate best to keep up, Ronan’s fingers against Gansey’s naked hipbone, Gansey’s ankles tangled in his own underwear and shorts where he never kicked them off, Gansey shifting to move his dick out of the way so he can settle solid against Ronan’s side and then Ronan rolling them over because fuck that — right up until the awful noise Gansey makes when he’s whole-body bare-assed naked on Monmouth’s concrete floor, Ronan biting Gansey’s tongue when he laughs. 

Gansey’s normally unselfconscious, naked, but he’s shy when he pushes Ronan off him so he can kick off his shorts and toe off his top-siders and roll to his knees. He doesn’t cup his hand over his dick or anything like that, but Ronan finds it hard to let his gaze linger. He doesn’t know if that’s allowed, if this was some sort of one-time thing. 

“Ronan,” Gansey says, and Ronan looks at Gansey’s face instead of getting distracted by how badly he wants to put his mouth against the freckle just under Gansey’s right nipple. Gansey tugs at Ronan’s shirt, which at this point is doing pretty much nothing but rubbing damp jizz into Ronan’s chest. 

It takes Ronan an embarrassingly long time to realize that Gansey wants his shirt off. 

Ronan pulls it off, the way he learned to by watching Gansey, by watching boys changing in before tennis practice: reaching over his shoulder to fist a hand in the back of his shirt and just haul it over his head. He throws it across the room, and reaches back out for Gansey, to tug him over.

Gansey goes easy, settling his warm chest against Ronan’s clammy one, rubbing his thigh against Ronan’s jeans. 

“Should I do you?” Gansey asks, his face pressed into Ronan’s neck, and his voice isn’t trepidatious, or worse, full of regal noblesse oblige. Just honest, boyish and perhaps a little gallantly polite, because he’s Gansey. 

Ronan wraps an arm around his back, carefully doesn’t let his hand slide down to Gansey’s ass. He wants to squint at him, peer at Gansey’s face to figure out if he really means it, but Gansey’s pressed too close. He settles his hand on Ronan’s bare stomach to run his hand over the muscle there. 

Ronan flexes instead of answering.

Gansey huffs a laugh, his breath hot against Ronan’s skin, and traces over Ronan’s abs with a fingernail before following Ronan’s happy trail down to fit his hand over the fly of Ronan’s jeans. He tugs at Ronan’s belt loops and presses a small kiss into the side of Ronan’s neck.

“Let me,” Gansey says, and thumbs open the button of Ronan’s fly. Ronan catches his wrist, stops his hand from moving, and Gansey leaves his hand where it was, pulls away from Ronan just enough to pout up at him. Ronan studies Gansey’s face: his full lower lip, his long, dark eyelashes, the ruddy flush on his cheeks.

“Do you want to?” Ronan asks, finally. 

Gansey doesn’t nod, exactly, but he tugs a little harder at Ronan’s jeans, bites his lip and arcs up to kiss Ronan again. Well, alright. 

Gansey helps Ronan out of his jeans, leaves them puddled on the floor, and then the both of them are standing there, in front of Gansey’s bed in Monmouth’s echoing main room. Gansey is still very naked. Ronan still has his boxers on. 

Gansey’s jaw goes all firm and he presses all ten fingertips into Ronan’s chest to nudge him onto the bed. Ronan goes, easily enough. Gansey hasn’t made his bed but the sheets are mostly clean, which is more than Ronan can say for the state of his bed. And it’s better than the floor, at least. 

Gansey clambers up after Ronan, to kneel over his thighs. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Ronan’s underwear and tugs it down around Ronan’s thighs. Gansey makes that sheepish face he makes when he’s being president cellphone, _oops terribly sorry aren’t I a silly one_ , and then clambers back off Ronan’s thighs again so Ronan can kick his boxers off. Ronan hates that face. Gansey doesn’t need to make excuses with him.

Ronan kicks his boxers off his ankles, and toes his socks off too for good measure. He doesn’t pay attention to where they land, just pulls Gansey back on top of him. 

Gansey doesn’t stare. Or, well, he does, but it’s not like he’s watching Ronan’s body like it’s a trainwreck. He’s not gawking. 

He runs a fingertip up the rippling shimmery scar Ronan’s got along the outside of one thigh, wrapping up over his hipbone. Gansey smiles, and it lights up his face. He’s staring at Ronan’s muscles, maybe. At his scars. Ronan can live with that.

“Should I — would you like my mouth?” Gansey says, smiling a little still, polite but anxious. Ronan thinks about Gansey’s head between his legs, running strands of Gansey’s hair between his fingers. 

He thinks about how he knows for a fact that Gansey doesn’t know how to do that, and that he badly wants to try it with a girl. He knows because Gansey told him. He isn’t entirely sure that Gansey still hasn’t gotten a chance to try it, but he doesn’t want to find out.

“Let’s do something else,” Ronan says, so he doesn’t have to lie. He does want Gansey’s mouth. Instead, he takes Gansey’s hand and brings it to his mouth.

“Oh,” Gansey says, and watches Ronan kiss his knuckles. 

Ronan sits up a little, shifts so he can grab Gansey’s lotion off the nightstand. He gives it to Gansey, who takes it. His eyebrows dimple into a frown.

“Ronan, if you need this, we probably shouldn’t be…” 

Gansey trails off, but he curls a hand, leaving two fingers extended, and makes a demonstrative hand gesture. 

Ronan says, “Where the hell do you think I’m asking you to put it?” and cracks up when he’s rewarded with exactly the horrified expression he was expecting. 

Ronan doesn’t even do that to himself, that often; he wants it, and _badly_ , but he doesn’t think he can talk Gansey through it. 

When he looks back up, Gansey’s gone all sulky again. “If you’re just going to make a joke out of it,” Gansey says, stiff the way he always gets when he feels mocked.

“Jesus,” Ronan says, and props himself up to kiss Gansey until the frown’s come unstuck from his mouth.

After a few minutes of that, Ronan moves Gansey’s hand down his body. Gansey stills once he reaches Ronan’s thigh.

“Okay,” Ronan says. “I’m only saying this once.” 

Gansey says, “I _have_ done this before,” and Ronan tries not to be hurt by that. 

“Not the way I like it,” he says, instead. “Are you gonna listen or what.” 

Gansey listens. Ronan almost wishes he wouldn’t; he can feel himself blushing.

“Um,” he says. “Don’t like. Go inside, just —” and Ronan makes the usual gesture with his fingers. He can feel his ears turning red. He can’t look at Gansey, after the way Gansey lets out a soft little exhale of breath. 

Ronan can’t do this. He feels like he’s going to combust. He can tell Gansey’s still _looking_ at him, paying earnest and sincere attention and probably wishing he could take notes. 

Gansey says, apologetically, “It might be easier for you to demonstrate?” and Ronan huffs. Fine. Obviously that’s where this ended up. Ronan gave Gansey a blowjob and now he’s going to have to lie there with his legs spread showing Gansey how to touch his pussy.

“ _You_ better use lube for this part,” Ronan says, sourly. His hands are shaking too badly for him to want to try the cap himself, though, so he does what he normally does on nights when he can’t be bothered to really take his time: reaches his hand between his legs and up and _in_ , just a little, to gather up some wetness on his fingers. There isn’t a lot, even though he’s been burning up all night. 

Ronan pulls them out right away again, and rubs his fingertips along his slit. “Okay,” he says. “Just — like this,” he says, and touches himself, just pushing his fingertips barely inside, only just to the first joint, moving them up and back instead of _in_. His hands are still nearly trembling, and he’s sure it can’t be much of a show.

He finally looks at Gansey’s face. Gansey’s concentrating, harder than he ever does in school; it’s nearly all the way to Glendower face. Ronan, encouraged, pulls his fingers out.

Gansey takes Ronan’s hand, and kisses his fingertips. He doesn’t lick them, or anything showy and gross like that. Just presses his soft lips to Ronan’s sticky fingers, and looks at him. 

“Okay,” Gansey says. “Okay. I can do that.” Ronan gives a jerky nod, staring at his fingers against Gansey’s mouth.

“What about,” Gansey says, and only a tiny pause belies his awkwardness, “clitoral stimulation,” and Ronan yelps “oh my GOD shut up” before he’s gotten the words out, and then has to beat Gansey into submission with a pillow.

Gansey, laughing, tries to fend him off. Ronan ignores everything he says in the process, because it all sounds mortifyingly earnest and Ronan can’t stand that. Not right now. 

They end up with Ronan on top of Gansey, kneeling up over his hips and holding Gansey down by the shoulders. It should be totally normal, because Ronan always kicks Gansey’s ass at this sort of scrappy fumbling. 

Except they’re both naked. 

Gansey’s throat bobs. “Okay,” he says. 

Ronan can feel Gansey’s arms move, at that, purposefully. He _is_ holding Gansey’s shoulders down. But Gansey isn’t moving like he’s going to try and throw Ronan off him, so Ronan doesn’t stop him, and then he hears the snick of Gansey clicking open the lube, and then he couldn’t stop Gansey if, for some reason, he wanted to. 

“Shit,” Ronan says, and Gansey looks up at him under his eyelashes. Ronan looks down between their bodies, as best he can. The lube is lying on Gansey’s stomach, cap still open, and Gansey’s reaching his hand down. Ronan moves his hands so they’re pressed into the mattress, and not into Gansey.

It’s not as cold as Ronan was expecting it to be. Gansey leaves a skidding trail up the inner crease of Ronan’s thigh and hip. Ronan hisses. 

“Hold still,” Gansey says, all prissy and bossy, and Ronan really wishes he didn’t know Gansey would talk like that in bed, too. He doesn’t really bother to try and hold still, less because he doesn’t want to and more because he can’t. 

Gansey’s fingers reach down and back, almost to Ronan’s asshole, and for a wild second Ronan wonders if Gansey changed his mind — but Gansey just rubs his slick fingers against the very back of Ronan’s slit. 

They slip in easily. He must have gotten a lot of lube on his fingers. With time to warm up they’re hardly even cold inside Ronan now. 

And then Gansey presses his fingernails _back_ , tugging Ronan open, just barely stretching at him, and Ronan squeezes his eyes shut. 

Gansey drags his fingertips up Ronan’s pussy, just barely spreading his — fuck. Lips. Petals. Whatever flowery fucking euphemistic word Ronan can think of that’s most descriptive and least _descriptive_. Just barely spreading them apart, anyway, teasing his fingers up the length of Ronan until the pads of his fingers are nearly digging into Ronan’s pubic bone. 

Gansey makes a pleased noise, nearly a hum, and asks, “Like that?” 

Ronan grunts and shifts his hips. Gansey gets the picture. 

He doesn’t try to push his fingers in. He keeps his two fingertips just barely breaching Ronan, just holding him open. Gansey is thorough about it, experimental, moving them in small circles or back and forth. Gansey twists his fingers and scissors them apart or wiggles them. 

It’s _nice_. Ronan isn’t sure he’ll be able to get off like this, trying to balance over Gansey and keep his hips still so Gansey’s fingers don’t slide in too far. But it feels good, different from when Ronan does this himself but still slick and hot and Ronan gets to look at Gansey the whole time it’s happening, gets to think about that kiss, that it’s Gansey’s fingers touching him. 

Ronan shivers, and it takes him from the goosebumps on his skull all the way to sweep across the base of his spine. His arms tremble.

“Ronan,” Gansey says, all wondering, “did you just —?” and Ronan has to open his eyes to glare at Gansey. He ends up kissing him, instead, Gansey straining up to reach and keeping his fingers slipping over Ronan. 

Then Gansey shifts a little, maybe trying to get a better grip, or a better angle, but he hooks his thumb — or moves it somehow — but suddenly the meat of Gansey’s thumb, his palm, is pressed right up against Ronan’s clit and his fingers are pushed back, his fingernails pressing against the back of Ronan’s pussy.

Ronan swears. He rubs down against Gansey’s hand before he can think to stop himself, grinds his clit in a couple tight little circles and then swears again when Gansey doesn’t curl his fingers, just leaves them stiff and stretching back. 

“You like that?” Gansey asks, and he’s not leering, just _serious_. 

Ronan bites his jaw and says, “Hold still,” because Gansey’s trying to curl his fingers and Ronan needs them right where they are, solid, pulling him open and pressed right against his wall, so Ronan can practically feel it in his ass, can just imagine —

He grinds down against Gansey’s hand again, and groans. He shivers and bites down on Gansey’s chin, clumsily, but Gansey just laughs. 

Gansey rubs his free hand over Ronan’s ribs while Ronan’s moving, squeezes his hip and runs his hand up Ronan’s back, over his tattoo, trailing his fingertips over Ronan’s spine, and Ronan thinks about Gansey’s fingertips pinning him down, pressing him open, how he can feel an electric line between Gansey’s fingers inside him and Gansey’s fingers caressing his back, and gasps, helplessly. 

Gansey kisses Ronan’s cheekbone, just under his eye. It’s so gentle Ronan can’t stand it.

And then he’s nutting, goosebumps crawling across his chest and neck, his thighs tensing rhythmically. He gasps into Gansey’s throat at the feel of it: how he feels like he’s being stroked by hundreds of hands all over, from the inside of his skin, like he should be able to see those touches pressing him open from inside; and then again, when Gansey just carefully presses a kiss into Ronan’s eyelid. His hips are working through it, pulling Gansey’s fingers into him a little further, making the stretch better, but it feels best when Gansey carefully pulls his hand away and he can clench down on nothing through the last of it. 

Gansey doesn’t bother wiping his hand off. Just pulls Ronan down on top of him with his damp hand and rubs at his back, lets Ronan shake apart against his chest. Ronan feels like he’d shatter if Gansey weren’t holding him together. 

“Shh,” Gansey says, stroking Ronan’s back and kissing his temple. 

Ronan catches his breath enough to sniffle and say, “Shut the fuck up.” 

Gansey says, “Thank you for letting me do that for you,” and Ronan bites his collarbone. He kind of squashed Gansey's little tube of lube when he lay down; it's slowly leaking all over Gansey's sheets.

They lie like that until Ronan has stopped shivering, until he can feel Gansey hard again against his thigh. Ronan makes agreeable noises, reaches down to try and give Gansey a hand with that, but Gansey shakes his head and kisses Ronan again, and that’s distracting enough that Ronan lets it lie.

This isn’t going to solve anything. In the morning, they’ll still have all the usual fights between them. 

“It’s late,” Gansey says, and Ronan makes a noise of agreement. He should head back to his room. He says that.

“I should head —” and jerks a hand towards the door to his own room. 

“Mm.” Gansey says, not a disagreement. “Sure,” he says, but he doesn’t let Ronan go. Ronan doesn’t try to squirm away.

“I’m hungry,” Gansey admits. Ronan bites Gansey’s collarbone again, because it’s right there. 

In case Ronan didn’t get it, Gansey adds, “And I don’t want anything out of the fridge.” Ronan laughs. 

“Okay,” Ronan says, rolling off of Gansey at last. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve got 8 unfinished wips and. decided i was going to post this One Fuckin Thing. and then i finished the second chapter like two months later bc i felt so guilty about leaving this incomplete AGAIN that i had to write it before i could reply to comments. thank u to the inimitable izzy for going through this and adding all the capital letters bc i wrote most of it on my phone, and also in general being like 75% of this fic’s entire target audience and cheerleading squad.  
> title from lorde's Ronsey Anthem 400lux. find me on [tumblr](http://spikenards.tumblr.com).


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